


Fuhre Mich

by Lady_MidnightII



Category: Spider-Man (Movies - Raimi), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Borderline Personality Disorder, Dark Character, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Don't Have to Know Canon, Explicit Sexual Content, Fucked Up, Hallucinations, Hand Jobs, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Identity Porn, Implied D/s, Light Bondage, M/M, Mental Instability, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mirror Sex, Norman Osborn is NOT a sane man, Not Beta Read, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Read This At Your Discretion, Self Prompt, Self-cest, Sexual Content, Songfic, Timeline What Timeline, Weirdness, What Have I Done, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:45:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1804126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_MidnightII/pseuds/Lady_MidnightII
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... Or that one dark night an author thought about Norman Osborn, and what would happen if he saw the Green Goblin in a mirror under... Different circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuhre Mich

**Author's Note:**

> So, first, I don't own anything but the story, and wow is this a weird one. I was watching the 2002 Spider-man movie, and when it got to the mirror scene with Willem Dafoe being all insane and acting like two vastly different people practically at the same time, sauntering toward that mirror, I knew I had to write something about it. Sadly, what came out was just my brain drooling about the pron aspects. So, yeah, I blame Willem Dafoe's wicked acting, and Rammstein's Fuhre Mich, which really didn't help. The lyrics, in my own small opinion, provide a very accurate description of the destructive, morbidly codependent, fucked up relationship between Norman and the Goblin. Well, if it was twisted in a sexual way. It began as a way of insight into the character and his alter ego, but I guess the prons kind of ruined that. But enough of my ramblings! It was fun to write, and hopefully it is fun for you to read!

* * *

Masks are the faces we see everyday.

Masks are the people we love, the people we hate.

Masks are the faces that we look at in the mirror.

 

It always starts in the night. A restless itching in his skin, a deepening heat, like the hot blood of a spreading bruise, strawberry red, before it cools to blue. Norman Osborn lies in bed, tossing and turning as his skin feels feverish and aching, as if he is ill, yet he knows he is not. The winter season’s snow falls softly outside his window, heavy brocade curtains parted, a whitish cat’s eye slit in the dark, the moonlight piercing the black room and the blanket of grey clouds. His torso is covered in real bruises, and again, he traces their nonsensical patterns (fist and wall and leg and fall) with his bony fingertips, drawing in a pained breath.

His arms burn faintly, as they sometimes do after a particularly strenuous workout. He doesn't know why. His thoughts are never quiet; even when he was taking his medication, they never stopped their chaotic storm.

Bouts of melancholia are crushing his soul; hysteria is blurring the lines of reality; insomnia is driving him crazy; amnesia suggests he might already be.

It is the absence of this monster, not the presence, that disturbs him. He turns over on his stomach, cringing, and relaxes enough to close his eyes, the shadowed green of a lake in the spring before the storm arrives, marbled by hemorrhages of echoed blue.

He presses his face into the pillow below his head, breathing in the sweet scent of lavender detergent as his ribs groan in protest. It’s supposed to be calming, and it is, but his thoughts still whirl around inside his skull, twirling in the dark like writhing phantoms, the shadow of a face below his own still lurking beneath the skin. It’s terrifying; he cannot remember why he’s afraid, and is supposed to be. Restless and aching once again, he shifts onto his back, and is shocked by hands pressing into his wrists from above him, pinning him to the bed, a heavy weight resting on either side of him, materialized as if from the open air, aching ribs forgotten.

He is too filled with fear to speak, to make a sound of panic or whatever else might have come out, heart hammering inside him. The figure, disguised in shadow, hushes him gently, a sinister sort of gentle that promises darker things to come, a comfort and a threat rolled into one serpentine sound, reminding him of his childhood days of darkness and lightning. It is better to see a monster in the dark than to see one in the light, where all is real.

And the voice! It’s hypnotizing in its own insane way; a low rasp and growl, like a smoker’s and a tiger’s together, raging in its deep, wild intensity. He can’t see what he looks like, but he can feel the intensity of the man’s gaze, and it’s pinning him with its overt possessive desire. He presses himself into the mattress, cringing, in a meager attempt to distance himself.

The man above him laughs like a dead man, or a ghoul… no, that’s not quite right…

Cackling softly, he removes one hand to palm his dick roughly through the thick layer of blankets.

It says ‘You know what I want, what you want.’ The hand says it all. He’s so sensitive he can still feel it, and his face flushes in terrified embarrassment. His free hand grips the sheets. He hopes that it is hidden in the dark. That hand, so like his own, continues to rub him, almost a pet, as one does with a dog or cat. Norman catches himself wondering if it would feel the same as his own, bare and slender, the same or better, and he looks away in shame before it is quickly taken away, leaving a sense of emptiness; but not for long.

No; his hands are quickly bound by a silken weave tie, arms above his head, the moonlight illuminating the deadly, sensual grace in the man or creature above him.

The tie is oddly electric in the dark room with its vibrant red color.

The warm blankets are peeled away by clawed hands, revealing his pale, naked body, his lightly blushing groin, a leering desire on the man’s face, his face, the man’s face. This must be some sort of dream. He has no way of knowing anymore. His eyes are tightly shut, eyelashes wet, his breathing strained from the arousal he’s starting to feel despite his better judgement and the bruised spasms of his rib cage. Each breath comes in cold, quick gasps, the cool air now flowing over his skin a live thing, the feverish ache all over heightening the sensations he feels; the light caresses down his inner thighs; the harsh stroking of his hardening cock by the man’s hand; Norman had been right; it felt the same but better, more rough and teasing than any time he’s ever jerked off, the affair before almost business-like. This, this is an act of pleasure, and pleasure alone.

It’s unexpected, the sudden pressure of thin lips upon his own; a wet, long, and pointed tongue demanding inside his mouth, burning and heavy with lust. It inflames his fire of shame and desire, and he opens himself submissively, trying to remain as passive as possible, to dim the pleasure of this guilty act, but it only serves to create more passion in the other man, teeth grazing reddening lips, his skin no longer cold but hot, so hot, a sheen of sweat developing as the torture in his loins goes on, twined with the kisses that feel more like little fucks of their own, tongues sucked like blow jobs in miniature.

He finds himself panting and wriggling beneath him, gasping as that long, twisted tongue strangles his; that strong, long-fingered hand strokes him slick and aching; his nerves shivering, the input almost too much, threatening to overload and crash. He makes a high, whimpering sound, bordering on distress, and breathes out,

“Not going to… to make it much longer…”

Abruptly, the hand stops, squeezes once, and is taken away. He groans in frustration before he sees the man grin and devilishly lick his hand of Norman’s precome, moonlight glossing the slightly viscous liquid, an obscene and delicious sight that has him trying to hide his reddened face in the pillow, dick twitching of its own desperate accord. He watches him laugh that high, raspy cackle, and crawl up further onto him, impressive length pressed up against his own, eliciting a whistle of intaken breath and a spark where there cocks barely touch, wet and hard, arching up against each other, hot metal sheathed in softest velvet.

Norman tries to buck into him, to escalate the volatile feeling, but those unusual hands with their sharp nails hold his hips still, hard enough to bruise, but he doesn't mind; for once, he doesn't mind being hurt like this. His heavy breathing is the only real sound that can be heard in the bedroom. The man above him leans close, warm breath caressing his lips, those invisible eyes boring into his with an intensity that cows his now latent urge to control.

He purrs, using his knee to spread Norman’s legs wider; he is met with little resistance as Norman parts them willingly, moaning softly, eyes darting away, because it’s all the truth.

Blunt, agile fingers tease Norman’s entrance mercilessly, his moans now freely flying about the room, only to end up being swallowed by the man’s mouth as two of the long digits easily wiggle their way inside him, firm and just the right side of fucking painful, lubed only with the precursor to the main event. It’s not long before he’s a sweaty, undignified mess thrusting back onto the three fingers inside him, cursing loudly as a tongue replaces them, all around, wetting and soothing and so desperately hot that finally Norman just sobs, “ _Fuck_ me, please!”

It’s the begging that gets the man to do it quick as he does, and it’s heaven, being filled and refilled and touched so deeply, something he’s never had enough of, has always wanted more of, and no one has ever been able to give to him. He cries out unabashedly, shivering and rutting back into the cock base deep inside him, breathing harsh and quick; the pain is inconsequential; there is only heat, and blooming pleasure, tropical and rare and more beautiful than anything else. Small touches, bites and kisses and sharp tugs of hair gild his torture, explosion after explosion on that little gland inside, and he’s howling for more, more heat, more pain, more ecstasy, more of this dark paradise.

The bed puts up with the battle quietly, with no such noise, not like the groans and pleas of Norman as he rides the man backwards, heavy hands staining his skin red that will turn to black and blue in the morning, matching the covered up pain of the bruises on his ribs as his neck gets a similar treatment, bitten and sucked over and over, a claim and a collar and a reminder that won’t get fucked up by the amnesia or the meds. He impales himself, again, sobbing with the pleasure of the smooth, wet, blissful slide down, his hands still restrained by the red silk tie, giving this a flavor Norman had never thought he’d get to taste; and it tastes so, so good.

After he leans back against the man for the fourth time, brought to orgasm within an inch of his life and worn out, those hands still never leave his skin, as if breaking contact would break some sort of spell as the cock, still hard, uses him for its own ends, and he lets the man, on his stomach with the man thrusting slowly, languidly into his over sensitized channel, muffling mewls and moans in the thick duvet, hazy periods of pleasure cleared by pangs of sudden pain; a rake of nails down his arms, or another stinging bite.

It’s in this deep haze, Norman loses himself gladly; he has to know who this silhouette, cut and brought to life from paper, really is.

Voice glazed by fatigue and endorphins, he mumbles out thickly, “Who are you?”

His answer comes in the form of a particularly sharp bite to the ear; a soft, laving tongue that makes his pulse stutter anew, the cock inside him shoving hard. New moans and grunts of erotic joy are woven with the gossamer midnight air. A pool of memories is floating in it, and is best seen where Alice herself first discovered that reflections are powerful things.

“Don’t play the innocent with _me_ … You've known all along.”

Perhaps it is a shifting of the clouds, an act of fate, but the moonlight squeezes its way further into the bedroom, lighting, if only slightly, the man above him, seen only in the vanity mirror directly in front of the bed, just in sight from this unorthodox position.

Behind his flushed, fucked-out form, he sees him:

Dark, dark hair, lightly waved and wild, pushed back from a slight forehead; the eyes are an ethereal, menacing green lit up with some sinister yellow light, like tourmalines, glowing from the deepened sockets and sharp cheekbones like a predator’s in the forest; his skin is the sickly green pallor of a corpse drug from the sea, leached of all other color by the burning salt; the hands bruising his hips are tipped with claws; and his ears, the nose, aquiline and pointed in nature.

They make him think of vampires…

No, that’s not quite right…

The moment the stranger comes inside him, his own voice wailing to the cold, distant moon, it’s then, he realizes who he’s fucking, why he’s loving it so much, maybe why he can’t remember:

it’s a darker, grotesque version of himself.

 

 

The following morning, Norman wakes up in his bed, refreshed and tired all at once. In the shower, he notices bruises on his hips, on his ribs, red marks around his shoulders and a bite on his neck.

He brushes them off, he is no stranger to mystery marks on his body, or the illusory aches and pains he feels within and out. He gets dressed hurriedly, unable to find the tie to perfectly match his suit. He calls out from the open door, “Harry! Have you seen my red Canali tie?”

“No dad, you must have put in dry cleaners again!”

With all his searching, he can’t find it. So, with a slightly bummed sigh, he chooses a more orange than red, but still red tie to complement the crisp blue undershirt and stark black suit jacket for the later Thanksgiving dinner with his son, Aunt May, Mary Jane, and Peter.

As he closes the door to his bedroom, there lies the tie, crumpled with a knot in it, as if it were used in place of rope, half hidden by white, white sheets, the long, reflecting mirror its only witness. Down the long stairs, Norman passes his wall of cultural masks, and they whisper as he walks past.

Because masks are the faces we see everyday.

Masks are the people we love, the people we hate.

Masks are the faces that we look at in the mirror.

**Author's Note:**

> See dem reference and hints and such? Actually pretty proud of those, and not using much dialogue. The original was more talky, with Gobby being very snarky and saying all sorts of terribly indecent things, but I felt it would have more mystery, depth, and ominous allure if the events spoke, mostly, for themselves. Tell me what you think, wonderful readers, and thank you for another read!


End file.
